


who's there?

by bubonickitten



Series: thresholds [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (up to MAG 92), Angst, Arachnophobia, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical spiders, Character Study, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 03, depersonalization/derealization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24084781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten
Summary: Jon has a panic attack after Elias shows him exactly what happened behind the door after Mr. Spider took its victim.Martin helps him calm down, and Jon tells him the story of his first Leitner.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: thresholds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737607
Comments: 70
Kudos: 732





	who's there?

**Author's Note:**

> Events take place immediately after part 1 of this series (knock-knock).
> 
> This ran longer than I intended it to. At some point it got kinda self-indulgent. 
> 
> CW for unreality, dissociation/drdp, panic attacks, tactile hallucinations, descriptions of spiders/arachnophobia, blood/injury, self-harm mentions (accidental in the context of a panic attack).

By the time Jon shuts the door to Elias’ office, he can barely stand.

Trembling, he leans – nearly falls – back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. He's still trying to untangle the dueling instincts to _flee_ and _freeze_ when his knees buckle and he slides down the wall to the floor. He’s breathing in gulps, shallow and quick, and when a long exhale dissolves into a shuddering sob, he Knows that Elias hears it and that he _smiles_ , and Jon hates himself for it.

_Elias._

A new wave of panic crashes over Jon when he realizes that the only thing between them is an unlocked door. The thought is enough to force him to stand, steadying himself against the wall with one hand as he makes his way down the hall on wobbly legs.

It’s easy, he tells himself: one shaky step at a time, no need to overthink it, _just keep moving_ –

He’s nearly to the door at the end of the hall when it happens. Something in his mind _fractures_ and he is a stranger to himself, a bemused observer floating somewhere _else,_ somewhere outside himself –

_…depersonalization: an altered state in which one feels unreal, as if one’s thoughts and emotions do not belong to oneself; often accompanied by a feeling of detachment from one’s own body and a dreamlike perception of the world around …_

The Beholding pummels him with the information, an intrusive thought somehow made worse by Jon's awareness of its supernatural origin. Jon usually finds it comforting to have a _word_ to describe his experiences, but it's no consolation now when _he did not ask for it,_ did not ask for _any_ of this. The way knowledge forces its way into his head these days, seeps into his mind unsolicited before he even notices what’s happening – he hates the invasiveness of it, the sense of _violation_ it brings. Facts and figures bleed into the edges of his mind like so many worms pouring in through the crack under the door and _burrowing into him_ and – 

_…he is a marionette with gossamer wire wrapped twice, thrice, a dozen times around his wrists and…_

– Elias’ words wriggle in his mind like worms through flesh, writhing like a fly caught in a web, and just like that –

_…the spider silk winds its way through the crack in the door, sticky and writhing; slowly and deliberately it twines itself around his arms, his knees, his neck, and he is pulled inexorably…_

– and his head is full of cobwebs and all at once he is the struggling fly and the too-curious child and the hapless victim and the human prey –

… _you opened the book, you stood on the threshold, you just as good as opened the door…_

– and he is the hungry spider and the monster behind the door and the inhuman predator in the dark just watching, watching, _watching_ –

… _we both know that the Archivist in you can’t leave a question unasked or unanswered…_

– as something Watches him back.

* * *

Jon is barely conscious of where he is until he's crossing the threshold to his office, smacking his shoulder on the doorframe on the way. The impact snaps him back to the present with a jolt, like a puppet jerked backward by its strings, and all at once he is aware of the _staring_. His assistants’ eyes bore into him as he passes them by; he feels their judgment and mistrust and anger and _fear_ trailing behind him like the wispy threads of a broken web –

He shuts the door behind him.

But there is no escaping the _watching._

The Not!Them watched him for months, delighting as he spiraled into paranoia and sabotaged his relationships. Elias knew all along, was always watching, is probably watching right now. And whatever patron Jon now serves – it never stops watching, does it? Watching him, watching through his eyes, watching through doors and walls and floors - 

_Is it still paranoia if you actually are being watched?_

Jon is an insect under a microscope and a dispassionate Eye pries him open, considers the component parts, catalogs and categorizes, files him away and never once deigns to share its verdict: whether his classification is _Jonathan Sims_ or _Archivist,_ and what criteria should be used to measure personhood. 

He is a _thing_ behind a door, unsorted and undetermined, and _he cannot breathe –_

* * *

**Knock-knock.**

He opens bleary eyes and does not immediately recognize where he is.

**Knock-knock.**

“Jon?”

_There is someone at the door,_ he thinks absently, but everything is muted, thick, cloying, and the thought disintegrates in the fog.

**Knock-knock-knock.**

Someone is at the door, but the sound is distorted, as if he’s listening to it from underwater.

“Can I come in?”

His thoughts are molasses-slow as he takes inventory his surroundings: He’s under a desk. _His_ desk. (He _thinks_ it’s his desk.) He’s huddled under a desk like a child playing hide-and-seek and, _oh_ , there’s someone at the door. 

**Knock-knock-knock-knock –**

“Jon, _please_ open the door.”

He reaches up to rub his face and stops short, because there is something wrong with his hands. They're coated in something adhesive and coppery-smelling and when he clenches his fists and feels the skin stick, all he can think about is _spider silk_ , tacky and clinging to his hands, his arms, his neck, his _face_ –

**KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-**

There is someone _hammering_ on the door.

He is breathing too loudly. The thing behind the door will hear him.

**_KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-_**

He clamps his hands over his ears, mindless of the mess. The thing behind the door cannot hear him.

_Silence._

Then:

“Jon, I’m coming in.”

As the door creaks open, Jon jumps at the sound, smacking his head on the underside of the desk. His eyes fly open and all at once he is _present_.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

Martin's voice, tentative and concerned.

As the footsteps draw nearer, Jon hugs his knees tighter to him, shrinking as far under the desk as he can. It’s childish, he knows: there are only so many places to hide in here. He knows when Martin spots him because he can _feel_ those eyes burning into him and –

“What – _Christ,_ Jon, are you bleeding?”

Jon looks up then, pupils blown wide. Even the low light stings, and he squints against it.

“Your hands are – is this _your_ blood? Jon, let me see –” 

Martin leans down to get a closer look and all at once Jon remembers his hands, covered in cobweb. He frantically rubs his palms on his clothes, digs his fingernails into his skin to claw away the layers; his heart is thundering in his ears, pulsating in time with his thoughts: _get it off get it off get it off getitoffgetitoffgetitoff **getitoff** \- _

“Jon, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”

And so he is: one of his fingernails catches the skin on the back of his good hand and now it’s bleeding freely. Jon stops scratching, recognizes the blood for what it is now. He begins flapping his hands uselessly, flailing, overwhelmed; he feels the tears coming again –

“Jon! Jon, listen to me. You’re – you’re hyperventilating, just… look at me.”

It takes a moment, but he does. His hands still.

“I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just – watch me, okay?”

Jon watches. He does not blink. 

“Okay, copy me. Four seconds in, hold seven seconds, eight seconds out, okay?”

Jon breathes, mesmerized as he watches the steady rise and fall of Martin's chest.

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Jon isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually his breathing evens out and the palpitations start to recede.

“Okay. Okay.” Martin sighs; Jon can hear the relief in it, almost feels it vicariously. “Listen, Jon, stay right here –”

Jon’s eyes go wide again and his lips move in wordless protest.

“I’ll come right back, I promise, I just – I want to get a damp cloth, clean off some of the blood, okay?” Jon hesitates, but gives a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just… keep breathing, okay?”

Martin stands and moves away slowly, quietly, like one might around a wounded animal. Once he’s out of sight, Jon hears him pick up his pace.

Martin leaves the door open.

Jon isn’t sure how to feel about that.

He focuses on breathing.

* * *

As soon as Martin enters the break room, three pairs of eyes fix on him.

“Well?” Basira begins, schooling her expression into careful neutrality. “What was –”

“Just a panic attack,” Martin replies, walking briskly to the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Tim says, feet on the table and tipping his chair back until the front two legs are dangerously high up off the floor.

“Martin,” Basira asks, “is that _blood?”_

“Yeah. Your _friend_ slit his throat, if you hadn’t noticed.” Martin hadn't intended it to come out as biting. In fact, he didn't even register how _angry_ he was until the words had already left his mouth.

In all the commotion, Martin hadn’t really had time to let it sink in, but now that he's seen the damage up close, he feels properly horrified. He thinks of how _proud_ Daisy had sounded in Elias’ office when she admitted that _she_ had slit Jon’s throat. He remembers how she interrogated him when Jon was missing, how she didn’t care about what happened to Sasha, how she had already decided that Jon was guilty, how she seemed to be _enjoying_ herself. He realizes now that all along her plan was to hunt Jon down, to murder him, to leave his body in the woods where no one would ever find him, to - 

To let him become another _goddamn_ mystery.

A quiet fury coils tight in Martin's chest, heated and itching to claw its way out.

“I thought it had stopped bleeding,” says Basira. She doesn’t sound _cold_ , exactly – just tactful, cautious. It’s a de-escalation voice, Martin realizes. The caretaker and mediator in him recognizes it - he makes frequent use of it himself - but in this moment it just makes him bristle.

“Yeah, well, he opened it back up,” Martin mutters, turning on the faucet and holding one hand under the stream, waiting for the water to run warm. “It’s fine. There’s just – there’s a lot of blood.”

“Can’t he deal with that himself?” Leaning against the wall nearby, Melanie rolls her eyes in disgust. “He’s a grown man. You don’t need to coddle him.”

“Lay off, alright? He’s scared –”

“ _He’s_ scared – Martin, we’re _all_ scared,” Tim snaps, rocking forward in his chair. The front two legs slam back into the floor with a loud crack. “ _He’s_ the one who went and –”

“I know, alright, I know – and you’re right to be angry.” Martin would be lying if he said he wasn’t still hurt over Jon’s behavior toward him in the previous months, but he’s had this discussion with Tim _so many times_ now, and he's tired of talking in circles. “I’m still not just going to leave him like that –”

“Why not? If he wants to wallow in his office, let him,” Tim says viciously. “It’s all he’s good for these days anyway.”

“That’s not fair,” Martin says, tight and defensive but trying so, so hard to keep his voice even.

“ _None_ of this is fair,” Basira chimes back in.

“No. No, it’s not.” Martin sighs as he pulls a large bowl out of the cabinet and sets it in the sink to fill. “But fighting each other isn’t solving anything.”

“More to the point,” Basira says, still composed and so deliberately impartial, “we all saw what he can do. We need to talk about that at some point.”

"Is he really all that different from Elias at this point?" Melanie makes it sound more like a statement than a question.

“He’s nothing like Elias." There is no hesitation when Martin speaks. 

Melanie lets out a derisive laugh.

And Martin’s anger finally boils over.

“You know, it’s not Jon's fault you’re here, Melanie!”

Martin rarely loses his temper. He hates conflict, hates the inevitable second-guessing and guilt that always settle over him after the moment has passed, hates how his size and height can make his anger look so much more threatening than he feels. Whenever he senses tension building, he puts all of his energy into modulating his voice, regulating his emotions, mollifying and pacifying until the storm passes, even if it means swallowing his own hurt in the process. 

Right this moment, though, he doesn’t have the mind for appeasement. He’s angry with Elias. He’s furious with Daisy. He hates being in the Archives with the ever-present feeling of being _watched_. And he’s frustrated with Jon for – for always being in danger, for turning up every day with fresh hurts and new scars. Martin knows he’s not being fair – Jon can be reckless, and careless, and self-destructive, and his obsessiveness eclipses his sense of self-preservation to an unhealthy degree, but it still isn’t his fault that so many things want to hunt down the Archivist. It’s just – Martin _worries_ , and Jon gives him a lot to worry about.

When he feels Melanie’s glare on his back, senses her gearing up to tear into him, he slams the faucet off and whirls around to face her.

“You chose to come here the first time, and you chose to keep coming back, and – and you were just as curious as he is, just as fascinated, just as obsessed, just as – as _reckless_." He breathes a short laugh. " _God,_ you two are so similar sometimes, you know that? You chose to go chasing monsters knowing full well you were putting yourself in danger, and – and hell, Jon wasn’t even _here_ when you took the job!” 

Martin is shaking. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, tries to rein in his outburst.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Melanie spits, her voice low and dangerous and laced with venom. “He’s _toxic_. This whole place is toxic and he’s so wrapped up in it he may as well be part of it.”

“We’re _all_ part of it."

“Whatever.” Melanie throws her hands up and stalks towards the exit. “Go fuss over him and have him berate you for caring.” Pausing at the threshold, she adds, scathing, “Seems that’s all you ever do.”

With that, she storms off, leaving a heavy, electric silence in her wake.

“She… didn’t mean that last bit,” says Basira after a moment. “She’s just – she's not herself lately.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, all sarcasm and resentment. “Welcome to the Archives.”

Martin says nothing. He grabs the overfull bowl of water, snatches a dish towel from the counter, and heads for the exit, water sloshing out of the bowl and onto the floor on his way out.

* * *

Jon hears footsteps coming back down the hall – _Martin’s,_ he thinks distantly; _isn’t it strange how you unconsciously learn to distinguish a person’s footsteps when you spend enough time around them?_ – followed by the soft _click_ of the door as Martin closes it behind him. He walks around the desk and kneels down, slow and soft and careful, as if any quick movement would shatter Jon’s uneasy calm.

“Sorry for the wait,” Martin says with a forced smile. He tries to keep his tone light, but Jon can sense the strain underneath.

Jon had heard the shouting echoing down the corridor, had been faintly surprised when he heard Martin raise his voice, however brief. He couldn’t make out everything that was said, but he had a general idea. He didn't have to Know; it wasn’t that hard to guess.

Martin places a bowl of water on the floor, dips a dish towel into it, and looks at Jon expectantly. “Is it alright if I –?”

Jon nods once, slowly. Martin starts with his hands, wiping away the congealed blood coating his skin. It’s odd, Jon thinks, how absorbed he is in the task. Martin pays attention to the smallest, strangest details; scrubs at the blood-encrusted cuticles and scrapes away the stains under the tips of Jon's fingernails, frequently dipping the towel in the water and wringing out the mess.

There’s a little crease between his eyebrows, Jon notices, the familiar one that he gets when he’s deep in concentration. Jon plays back all the times he’s seen it: Martin standing in the break room, carefully measuring sugar before stirring it into his tea. Martin judging a trajectory as he aims to throw a crumpled ball of paper into the bin across the office. Martin making handwritten notations when working on his assigned statements; whenever he made a connection, one corner of his mouth would quirk up and his writing would become more feverish. Martin writing poetry. And Jon could always tell when Martin was composing poetry at his desk rather than doing his job: he worried his lower lip between his teeth, and he always leaned closer to the page.

With a distant sense of wonder, Jon notes that he… never really made a conscious decision to memorize those details. He ponders vaguely whether it’s something he Knows, or if he’s simply been paying attention all along without even realizing.

“You doing alright there, Jon?”

Jon inclines his head and closes his eyes. It’s – surreal, how safe he feels just then. He lets himself drift, loses himself in the sensation of a soft touch.

When Martin turns his attention to Jon's burned hand, healing but still stiff and sore, he braces himself for the searing pain, but it doesn't come. That feels _wrong_ , somehow, and - and, _God,_ what does that say about him? When was the last time anyone touched him with kindness? He didn't realize until just now the extent to which the boundary between _physical contact_ and _intentional bodily harm_ has eroded for him lately; how automatic his associations between touch and fear and pain have become. 

When Martin pulls away - _How much time has passed?_ \- Jon's eyelids flutter open groggily. 

“Will you be okay if I clean your neck?”

Jon lifts his chin to expose his throat and sits up straighter and -

He immediately hits his head on the underside of his desk again. _That_ seems to animate him. He huffs irritably and _glowers_ up at it as if it’s the desk’s fault for being in the same place it always is.

Martin snorts at that, then winces. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to laugh –”

Then Jon's mouth twitches in a tentative smile, and Martin relaxes. 

“Are you alright to come out from under there now? It’ll make this easier.”

Jon says nothing, just scoots out from the little hollow under his desk. He still presses himself up against the side, still feels safer the more compact he makes himself, but he's unfurling, slowly but surely. 

“Okay, tip your head back for me. That’s it – just, hold still.” Martin pauses, considers Jon’s nonverbal state. “Tap me if you need me to back off, alright?”

Closing his eyes, Jon lets himself drift again, allowing Martin to dab at his neck with the damp cloth. How is he so gentle? Jon isn’t _relaxed_ , exactly, but he can’t remember the last time he felt safe enough to let down his guard like this. It was only hours ago that he had experienced firsthand how simple it would be for someone to take a knife to his throat and _press;_ he should be much more hesitant to expose it like this, to have someone touch it when it’s still raw and stinging, and yet… somehow, this is fine. Good, even.

Jon’s hair has gotten long - _When_ was _the last time he had a haircut?_ \- and some of it clings to his neck, matted with drying blood. As Martin peels the strands away from the skin, Jon shivers.

Martin draws back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“Mm.” Jon’s lips move mutely for a few moments before he manages, “No.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper and he clears his throat. “Ticklish.” Still raspy, but better than before.

“There you are.” Even though Jon's eyes are closed, he knows - Knows? No, just _knows_ \- that Martin is smiling. He can hear it in his voice, can almost _feel_ it radiating off him. Martin adopts a deliberately bland tone when next he speaks. "You... really did a number on yourself."

“Accident,” Jon croaks out. Opens his eyes, clears his throat, tries again. “There were – they were in my throat, and I – I needed to – I wanted them out.”

It’s still fuzzy, but he vaguely remembers scratching at his throat, trying to chase away the sickening feeling of hundreds of tiny legs skittering down his throat and _into his lungs and_ –

That little crease is between Martin’s eyebrows again. “What was -" 

“It was – nothing, stupid, imagined, just – felt them crawling and I couldn’t –”

“Worms?” Martin guesses.

“No, no. Too many legs.” An involuntary shudder rips through him; for a moment he can feel feather-light legs scuttling across his skin again; he flexes his good hand, chasing the tactile distraction, nails biting little crescent shapes into his palm. “It – just, too many legs. And – and cobwebs, blocking my – couldn’t breathe –” Growing agitated, his hands start fluttering again.

“Okay,” Martin soothes. “Okay. Stay with me. You’re safe. Take some breaths for me.”

“Mm.” Jon breathes, ragged at first, but evening out after a minute.

“Good.” Martin leans back in and continues dabbing lightly around the wound on Jon’s neck. "Keep breathing, just like that."

* * *

Several minutes later, Martin pulls away and drops the towel in the bowl. The water is stained a muddy red, now, and Martin frowns at the sight. _God,_ he wishes Jon was better at keeping his blood _in_ his body.

There are still some watery, diluted traces of blood on Jon's neck and hands, but at least he's not caked in the stuff anymore. Looking at the inflamed gash on his neck, Martin feels that little flicker of rage again, and tries not to let it show on his face.

“I have to change out the water before I do more. It might be easier to do the rest in front of the sink, though. And we should really bandage your neck and - and your burn." Martin falters for a moment, fighting back his impulse to ask how _that_ happened. "You, uh, probably want to change, too – you’ve got blood... well, everywhere. I assume you still have some spare clothes in the storage room?”

Jon is looking down now, picking at a ragged cuticle on his burned hand. Martin assumes that means he’s not ready to move quite yet.

“Do… do you want to talk about what happened?” 

“No,” Jon whispers, but he has a peculiar look on his face, like he’s working up to something. Martin recognizes it – a sort of faraway look, like he’s gone into his own head for a moment to commune with his own thoughts. It always puts Martin in mind of a wait cursor or a blinking ellipsis. 

It isn’t uncommon for Jon to trail off and walk away mid-conversation. When they first started working together, Martin assumed it was that he said something wrong, or that it was just one more way for Jon to snub him. But more often than not, a few hours would go by and Jon would pick up the conversation right where it left off, as if it had never stopped. _Jon is buffering_ , Martin thought to himself with a smile when he first realized what was happening. It was almost endearing, the idea of Jon taking something - something _Martin_ said, no less - so deeply into consideration that he spent hours thinking on it before composing a response. 

On the other hand, Jon was equally as likely to dismiss something outright without even entertaining the possibility of a discussion. The contrast could be jarring, and even after all this time, Martin still hasn’t quite discerned any pattern that will let him predict which version of Jon he’s dealing with at any given time.

Either way, Martin is good at sitting with silence. And this silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. 

“I don’t,” Jon continues eventually, frowning slightly. “But… but I think I should?”

“Okay?” Surprise slips into Martin’s voice before he can tamp it down, but if Jon notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Apparently Elias can – can put knowledge in someone’s head? Or – mine at least, I don’t know if it has something to do with what I am, or if he can do it to anyone, but he…” Clearly searching for the right words, Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I mean, I was already on the verge of a breakdown, wasn’t I?” His voice breaks and he covers it with a bitter smile. “I suppose I – I just needed one more little push.” 

Martin resists the urge to point out that having the threat of imminent death hanging over your head every waking moment is more than _a little push_.

“He showed me – I saw – it… he made me Know, and I had to watch, and I _felt_ how it –”

“Stay with me, Jon.”

Martin rests his palm on Jon’s unburned hand, then pulls back in a rush, instinctively sensing that he had crossed a line.

But Jon chases his hand and grasps it tightly. He doesn't make eye contact. “Is this okay?”

“I – sure, I mean – yes, of course,” Martin sputters. He feels his face heat and hopes Jon is still too foggy to notice how flushed he must be.

“Mm.” Jon shakes his head and laughs nervously. “I… this is harder than I thought.”

“Would... would it help to frame it as a statement?”

Jon seems to consider that for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. I already gave a statement about this matter, and it feels... wrong, in some way, for me to offer the same statement a second time.”

Martin doesn’t really get it, but he takes Jon’s word for it.

“What if I… if I asked a direct question, would that help? I mean, I can’t compel you, obviously, but –”

  
  
“Okay.”

“What?”

Martin has never known Jon to be this receptive to his input. Jon just shrugs, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“Ask me.”

“O...kay. Right. Um, so, what did Elias say to you?”

After a moment's pause, Jon begins to speak. 

“He… he Knew something that I never told anyone before.” He starts slow, but seems to gain confidence after a few words. “The thing that first pushed me toward the supernatural, that started me on the path to – well, to all of this. Odd, to think that just… opening a book could lead me here.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “I was only eight.”

“A book?” Martin frowns. “You don’t mean –”

Jon smiles, but it’s a fragile, humorless thing. “My first Leitner.” He takes a deep breath and speaks through the exhale. “ _A Guest for Mr. Spider._ ” 

“Oh,” Martin whispers as the pieces fall into place.

“Yeah. I knew it was – wrong, somehow, but I just… I had to _know_ , so I opened it, and I… I read.” Jon swallows hard and leans forward, curling in on himself somewhat. “I started walking. I didn’t know where the book was taking me, and I couldn’t stop reading, couldn’t even blink.” A pause as he maps out his next words. “There was… an older kid in my neighborhood. He wasn’t very keen on me. I was an annoying child, easily bored, always trying to show off how much I thought I knew. Never really was good at people.” He huffs a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that hasn’t changed. Anyway, he – he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or – or maybe I was, but he decided to knock the book from my hands and it… broke the hold it had on me.” Jon gives a little half-shrug, and his voice drops to a low murmur. “He didn’t mean to, but he saved my life.”

Jon’s thumb rubs absentminded little circles on Martin’s hand, and Martin feels his heart skip a beat. _Focus._

“So, he – he picked up the book, and he opened it, and then he was reading. And he started walking. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed him.” Martin notices frantic, rapid little movements behind Jon's shut eyelids. “And then he was standing in front of a door, and he knocked, and it opened, and the – the _thing_ behind the door pulled him in. I never saw him again.” Jon falls quiet for a long moment, his jaw tensing and unclenching. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re brimming with tears. “I don’t even remember his _name_. He died in my place, and I don’t – he deserves to be remembered, but I _can’t_ –”

Martin gives Jon’s hand what he hopes is a reassuring little squeeze.

“I – I never knew what really happened to him, you know? The door closed, and I just… left him to his fate, what was supposed to be my fate. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened after the door closed. I was certain he must have died – hoped he was dead, because the alternative was...” Jon shudders miserably. “I obsessed over it, how he died, how long it took, whether it hurt, whether he was afraid, and – well, you can guess what a child’s imagination can do with that. Though I rather think my imagination now is just as overactive as it was back then. Certainly still _obsessive_ enough.

“There’s something uniquely torturous about the _not_ knowing, about the way the brain can flesh out a scene with mere scraps. I used to think that – that if I knew what happened behind the door, it would be better, because at least I would _know_ , and I wouldn’t have to see a million variations in my nightmares. I could just – just have the one nightmare, and acclimate to it.

"But I was wrong. Elias – he showed me – showed me what happened, and made me _feel_ it and it – I…” His voice gets very soft, and he glances at Martin with haunted eyes. “You know how spiders feed, Martin.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin can hear his voice crack. “I’m so sorry, I – I knew you didn’t _like_ spiders but I didn’t realize – God, all the times I’ve prattled on about them –”

“No, I – it’s fine, you couldn’t have known.” Jon waves him off. “In fact, I - I actually used to seek out information on them when I was a child. I thought if I learned everything I could about them, examined them through a – a detached, academic lens, I could get over the fear. But apparently a phobia doesn’t care about ecological niches, or the wonders of evolution, or…” He trails off and a shadow passes over his face. “I suppose I’ve always assumed that I could solve a problem if I just learned everything there is to know about it. Spent years making myself miserable obsessing over spiders and nothing changed.” His laugh is brittle. “Knowledge at any cost."

Another heavy silence falls. Judging from Jon's expression, there's more; he treats conversations like impossibly complex puzzles sometimes, picking his way through words to find one that will slot _just so_ into a sentence. Martin wonders how Jon would react if he ever told him that that's what writing poetry is like. 

"The thing is, though," Jon continues after a minute, "I think it’s only right, for me to know what happened to him in the end? Because why should I be spared from the knowledge when it’s my fault he –”

Jon’s breath hitches; he struggles to compose himself before continuing.

“But beyond that, it just feels _right_ for me to know. Like I’m owed every scrap of knowledge that comes my way, as if I have every right to consume and possess these stories. And I _hate_ it, Martin,” he says with sudden, surprising ferocity. “I _hate_ it because I’m just this – this uncaring watcher drinking it all in, and there’s a sick, detached fascination that comes with it, and I don’t know if that’s _me_ or whatever master the Institute serves – that _I_ serve, now, or… I hope it’s not just me, I don't - I don't _think_ it's me, but even if it isn’t, I – I still feel it, it still feels _right_. But it’s not. I know it’s not,” he says, breathing in erratic, shaky gasps.

“When I read a statement, it’s like I’m _there_ , experiencing it right along with them, but the fear is also – muffled? Like the fear is being filtered through the words – through my voice, before it reaches me. And hovering in the background there’s this alien _thing_ – part of me, but not me – gorging itself on a story that doesn’t belong to it, doesn’t belong to _me,_ doesn’t belong to anyone except the one who actually lived it. It just… worms its way into my mind, forces me to feel its pleasure at their fear. At _my_ fear.”

He shakes his head, his voice thick as he chokes back tears. “ _God_ , I’m sorry. I’m treating you like a therapist.”

“It’s alright, Jon.”

“No, it’s really not.” Jon sighs. “I tried counseling once in uni, you know. Georgie suggested it. Quit after a few sessions, though. Not good at opening up, I suppose.” He shrugs. “And – and now? I mean, what am I supposed to tell them? That - that closed doors make me uneasy because I almost met a monster when I was eight, and let it take someone else in my stead? About the flesh hive, how some days I _still_ feel the worms burrowing into me and it’s everything I can do not to – to grab a corkscrew and start digging for them?” He laughs, a little hysterically. “That any time I look at my own hand, I can still smell the flesh melting? That a man dropped me into the sky and let me fall, and then he was shot in front of me by a rogue cop who made me dig his grave? That she - that she tried to shove a knife through my voice box for good measure? That I’m becoming a _monster_ , no different than that _thing_ behind the door, and I can’t stop it, and it’s my own fault for asking too many _goddamn_ questions?”

He’s not even crying anymore, Martin notices. There’s something… hollow about his voice. Resigned. _Tired_. Martin’s heart aches with it, and he grips Jon’s hand more tightly.

“Jon, listen to me. You’re not – you’re not a monster.” Jon scoffs. “I’m serious. Look at you. I mean, no offense but – you’re a _mess_. Right now all I see is a frightened, exhausted _human_ covered in his own blood, putting _way_ more thought into what it means to be human than most humans do, and – and when’s the last time you even slept?”

“I don’t know,” Jon murmurs. He loosens his grip on Martin's hand and pulls away, scrubs at his eyes to wipe away the residual wetness there. “That’s not high on my list of priorities right now.”

And just like that, Jonathan Sims throws a wall back up between them. Martin recognizes the slightly stiff quality his voice takes on, and knows that he won’t get anything more out of Jon today.

But then - 

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s voice is quiet, but somehow loud in its impact.

“Oh! Don’t worry about it, it’s – it’s no big deal –”

“It was to me.”

“No, that’s not what I – I didn’t mean that it’s not a big _deal,_ I just –” Martin puffs out a breath of air, feeling flustered. “What I mean is, I’m glad that you – that you trusted me to help.”

“I trust you.” There’s a finality to it. It’s similar to the terse _this-conversation-is-over_ tone that Martin is so familiar with, but somehow… gentler. Warmer. “Present tense.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is very, very small.

“I just…" He heaves a sigh. "Thank you. For being here. For being patient with me. I know I’m not – I’m not exactly pleasant to be around. I don’t make it easy to be near me. And I treated you, and Tim, like enemies when I - when you - when _all_ of us needed allies.” He looks up and meets Martin’s eyes. “I'm sorry. But - I’m trying to be better. So, thank you. It… means a lot.”

He can’t stand to see Jon hurting, but some small, guilty part of him is still glad that Jon trusted him, opened up to him, accepted help – _Martin’s_ help – for once.

Martin smiles. He intends it to be reassuring, but he’s pretty sure it comes off as a little delirious instead. “Any time,” he says, a little breathless. 

When Jon tries to stand, he accepts Martin's outstretched hand without another word. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Tumblr at [bubonickitten](https://bubonickitten.tumblr.com/)!


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